Time crept along at a snail's pace while Guzman waited on the Macarena's flying bridge for the Scorpion's motor launch to appear with its cargo of gunmen. After a moment, Guzman realized that he was holding his breath, and he released it with a whistling sigh between clenched teeth.
Should he have checked with Carlos first, before he sent the gunmen off to deal with the intruders? Possibly, but he had judged that there was no time to be wasted in the present situation. Anyone aboard the weather-beaten cabin cruiser could identify the Macarena and the Scorpion from legends painted on their transoms. Granted, they were still miles from their destination, but Guzman had trained himself to think ahead, anticipate such problems and eliminate them in the embryonic stage.
Carlos would almost certainly agree with him, but Guzman would have wasted precious time by then. And if Carlos did not agree ...what then?
Then Carlos would be wrong.
It startled Guzman, thinking in such terms, but he didn't regard it as betrayal of his lifelong friend. The best and wisest men still made mistakes from time to time; it simply proved that they were human, after all. A friend stood ready to prevent such lapses of humanity from turning into fatal errors.
There! The motor launch was setting off from the Scorpion's port side, three gunmen leaning forward on the thwarts, while a fourth manned the outboard engine's throttle. Their weapons were nowhere in sight, but Guzman knew they would be close at hand, ready to open fire at the first indication of a threat from the old cabin cruiser.
In moments, they would draw abreast of the intruder. Moments more, and they would be aboard. A brief delay, while Sifuentes tried to determine if the new arrivals on the scene posed any threat to Ramirez and company, but it would make no difference in the end. Once they had stormed the cabin cruiser, everyone aboard would have to die. They were potential witnesses, and while the boat wasn't worth stealing, in and of itself, it could be scuttled, lost at sea.
Another mystery of the Caribbean, perhaps unsolved forever.
And if Carlos was displeased with the result, well, Guzman knew that he could reason with his old friend, given time. Their business with the loco pirates took priority, and nothing else could be allowed to slow them down.
He leaned against the rail and lit a cigarette, watching.
Waiting for the distant sound of guns.
"STAY COOL," REMO ADVISED the ex-professor.
"I don't recognize these men," said Humphrey, squinting in the late-afternoon sunshine as he watched the power launch approaching.
"Just remember," he warned Humphrey, "when the guns go off, you're standing in the middle."
"I don't recognize these men," the former academic said again. "Who are they?"
"Let's just wait and see."
Remo slid down the ladder and found a hiding place from which he could observe and overhear the new arrivals as they came aboard. The moments ticked away, Humphrey hauling back on the throttle as the strange craft approached. A voice hailed Humphrey from the launch, and Remo frowned. Their spotter didn't seem to recognize the old man, and he had what sounded like a South American accent. That wouldn't rule out a pirate, in itself, and yet...
There was a soft thump as the launch kissed hulls with the Mulligan Stew, and then boarders were scrambling over the rail, boot heels clomping on deck. Humphrey was agitated, calling down to them from his place on the flying bridge.
"What's the meaning of this?" he demanded. "What are you doing with those guns? This is-"
A stutter of automatic gunfire rattled overhead. Remo waited, half expecting a squall of pain, perhaps the sound of Humphrey's body sprawling on the deck above him, but instead he heard a scramble of feet as the professor ducked out of sight.
"Stand up, pendejo," one of the boarding party demanded. "There are questions joo must answer."
"This is a flagrant violation of-"
Another burst of gunfire silenced Humphrey, bullets smacking into bulkhead, one round glancing off the tarnished brass rail with a high-pitched whine.
"All right!" the old man shouted. "Please, stop shooting! Tell me what you want!"
"We gonna search joo boat," one of the shooters said. "Joo gonna tell us why joo're here."
"Look anywhere you want," the old man answered, groveling on the deck. "I have nothing to hide."
Remo heard footsteps on the deck, approaching his hideout. This was a nice spot, he decided. Out of sight of any binocular trained on the Mulligan Stew from the boat these losers came from.
He concentrated on the footsteps of the gunman who was closing on him, marking others as they moved off toward the bow.
The man who came around the corner was a twenty-something Latin, carrying an Uzi submachine gun in both hands, across his chest. Dark eyes went wide at the sight of Remo, but he had no chance to use his gun or shout a warning to the others in the split second of life remaining to him.
Remo grabbed the Uzi, grabbed its owner and inserted the former into the latter. The Uzi went pretty far down the gunman's throat, and with a little pushing and twisting it went in a lot farther.
Remo hoisted the gunner's deadweight and sat him in a bench seat in the cabin cruiser's galley. Above him, on the deck, more footsteps. Remo could hear someone shouting at Humphrey, the sound of an open hand striking flesh, a cry of pain and outrage from the ex-professor. Whatever kind of search was under way, it seemed haphazard and disorganized.
Remo emerged from the companionway into sunlight. Most of the noise was coming from his left, the starboard side, so Remo moved to port. He knew there was a gunman above him, grilling Humphrey, and another somewhere to starboard. That left the one making footsteps in Remo's direction.
"Uh-" the gunner said.
"Bye," Remo said, rapping his knuckles on the gunner's rib cage. The gunner's eyes went wild as his heart rhythm revved out of control. Remo held the guy's mouth closed with one hand to keep the screams from escaping, stepped on both the man's feet with his own and pulled the spasming body taut to keep him from making any loud noises. A few seconds later the gunner had stopped making noises forever, and Remo dropped him.
Remo went looking for gunner number three. The Mulligan Stew was a sort of floating sounding board, and Remo could easily track everyone on board by the sound and vibration of their footsteps. That meant the hunt for gunner number three wasn't even a challenge. He just walked up behind the man. The gunner turned to face Remo-his head, that was in Remo's hands, turned to face Remo. His body stayed facing front. The gunner was dead before he had time to figure out why the world had suddenly started turning in circles.
That left the man up top guarding Humphrey. "Wha' joo doin?" the apparent leader of the boarding party called down to his team of thugs, not knowing the gun squad was, each in his own unique manner, very dead. Remo saw a bulky shadow moving toward the port rail of the flying bridge as he came up on it.
The commander of the boarding party was a stocky man, solid muscle underneath a layer of camouflaging fat. He had some kind of submachine gun and he brought it into play when Remo rushed him and struck at his gun arm.
The stocky man was confused as to why his gun was silent. Then he heard an abrupt splash off the side of the boat. He looked over just in time to see his submachine sinking in the turquoise Caribbean water, dragging his arm down with it.
But that couldn't be right because the man who had attacked him didn't have a knife. How could he have cut off a whole arm?
The commander of the gunners decided the question was too difficult and he wilted where he stood as the blood pumped out by the pint.
Remo gave him a side kick that launched the gunner in a long arc and ended with another, bigger splash.
"Are you all right?" Remo asked Ethan Humphrey. The old man was sitting, his hands supporting his upper body as if he was about to collapse.
"All right?" The ex-professor looked confused, as if he didn't understand the language Remo spoke. Remo bent and gripped one of the old man's earlobes, pinch
ing lightly, bringing Humphrey to his feet.
"Were those your friendly pirates?" he demanded.
"Pirates? Ow!" The old man struggled in his grip but could not break away. "Of course not! Those were total strangers. Kidd's men wouldn't try to kill me!"
"Then we'd better get a move on," Remo said. "Find out what kind of speed this tub can handle."
"Speed?"
"Unless you want to see how many other guns these guys are packing."
"Oh, I see. Yes, quite."
The old man turned and grabbed the throttle, pouring on the power.
"YOU'RE GOING THROUGH with it?" Felicia asked.
"Don't be an idiot," snapped Megan. "What choice does she have?"
Stacy had asked herself that very question, time and time again, and still no ready answer came to mind. Of course, she could reject Kidd's offer, but would that accomplish anything? If she refused to play along with the pathetic marriage ceremony, would it stop the pirate chief from claiming her, forcing himself upon her?
No.
The grim truth was that Stacy had no viable alternatives. Escape or suicide would place her beyond Kidd's reach, and at the moment, the two words appeared to be interchangeable. And whatever her plight, the second hard truth was that Stacy Armitage wasn't prepared to die. Not yet.
Not while her brother's death was unavenged. "Are you okay?" Felicia asked.
"Christ, that's a stupid question!" Megan snapped. "She's got a shotgun wedding to a psycho killer coming up in-what, about two hours-and you ask if she's okay? Did someone drop you on your head when you were little?"
"Just get off my case, all right?" Felicia's eyes were flashing, angry tears about to spill across her cheeks.
Stacy Armitage almost didn't hear them. She had spied one bright spot in the otherwise unrelieved darkness of her waking nightmare. If she was "married" to Kidd, labeled his private stock, it meant two things. First, the other pirates would be kept away from her, her suffering and degradation minimized. And, more importantly, it meant there would be times when she was left alone with Kidd, no bodyguards or chaperones. And sometime, sooner or later, the pirate would let down his guard.
And when that happened, it would be her time to strike. She would require a weapon, then, but there was time to pick one out. She might not find an opportunity the first week-or the first month, for that matter-but her time would come. One chance was all she needed, and it didn't matter if the effort cost her her life, as long as she could take Kidd with her.
As for Chiun, she didn't know what the Korean had in mind, but it was growing more apparent by the moment that she couldn't count on him to help her.
"Penny for your thoughts," Megan said, frowning.
Stacy's voice was grim as she replied, "It's nothing, really. I'm just looking forward to my honeymoon."
"YOU THINK THEY WERE Kidd's men?" Carlos Ramirez asked.
"Who else?" Guzman replied.
Ramirez scowled across the Macarena's railing, standing with his fists clenched at his sides. The battered old cabin cruiser, Mulligan Stew her name was, had managed to outrun his newer boats despite their crews' best efforts. It was obvious someone had been tending to the old tub's engine-one more indication, if Ramirez needed any, that an ambush had been planned.
By whom? he asked himself. Who else but Captain Kidd and company knew that Ramirez would be visiting the pirate stronghold, sailing through these waters at this particular time? Who else could have prepared the ambush that had claimed four lives?
Ramirez had found one of his men floating dead in the water, minus an arm, when the Macarena started to pursue the enemy. The others had been jettisoned during pursuit, one already savaged by barracuda before they reached his body. There was no point hauling them aboard-more awkward questions if he should encounter a patrol boat on the prowl-but even when he let them go, urging his pilot to the utmost speed, the Mulligan Stew still pulled away from the pursuit craft, ultimately vanishing among the islands of a nameless archipelago. "What shall we do?" asked Guzman.
"What do you imagine, Fabian?"
Ramirez didn't know why Kidd would turn on him, betray him after they had worked together for so long. It hardly mattered now. Ramirez had a list of enemies that ran from spring to Christmas, taking special care with his security, but none of those he watched his back for on dry land had known where he was bound this afternoon.
It had to be Kidd, unless...
Ramirez had considered simple chance, and just as quickly ruled it out. The four men on his boarding party had been armed professionals, adept at killing for a fee. Armand Sifuentes had been something of a one-man army in himself, with better than two dozen murders to his credit. It defied all logic to assume that simple fishermen or tourists could have dealt with men like that and managed to escape unharmed.
There hadn't even been gunshots. They would have heard them. These men could never, ever have been brought down that quickly unless the ambush had been well planned and flawlessly executed.
That kind of work required stone killers. Thomas Kidd and his community of pirates might be loco, but they also knew their business, and killing at sea was their specialty. Who else made a more likely suspect, in the circumstances?
"Bring us back on course for Ile de Mort," Ramirez ordered.
"We're still going, Carlos?" Guzman sounded dubious.
"Indeed we are, amigo. If I'm right, the captain won't expect us now."
"We take him by surprise," said Guzman, smiling now.
"We take him by surprise," Ramirez echoed. "Now, full speed ahead!"
Chapter 17
The root Chiun had discovered on his quick tour of the jungle wasn't precisely what he sought, but it would do. He had sliced it and diced it-with a knife, since using his fingernails might have been considered unusual-and sprinkled it into the simmering pot.
Pirates were drifting in from their appointed duties, some of them already having changed from their grubby clothing into more colorful garb. Chiun had yet to see one of them bathe, nor was he looking forward to the sorry spectacle. In fact, from the effluvium that wafted off their unwashed bodies, Chiun didn't imagine that he would be dwelling on the island long enough to glimpse such a unique event. Nor, he surmised, would anybody else.
His stew was almost ready, its aroma spreading through the camp. From the reaction of prospective diners, several of them passing by and peering down into the pot, he knew that it would do the trick. There might not be enough to go around, but even if he only reached two-thirds of his opponents, it would be sufficient.
The potion was indeed mere window dressing for his master plan. Chiun had no fear of his "captors," needed no tricks to defeat them singly or en masse, but it amused him to distract them from the woman while he made his move. The root he had selected was fast-acting, and should bring results within fifteen or twenty minutes after it had been consumed. The camp would be a great deal more malodorous once his surprise kicked in, but Chiun reckoned there would be little time to savor the result--or suffer through it, as the case might be-before he had to make his move.
It had been ordered that the feasting should precede the wedding ceremony. That was fine with Chiun; in fact, it suited him no end. He knew the hasty ritual would have no standing anywhere beyond the pirate stronghold, but it pleased him to consider frustrating the would-be king's design.
There had been no time for him to discuss his plan with Stacy Armitage, but that didn't concern Chiun. White women had a way of letting their emotions run away with them in crisis situations, and he understood that redheads were the worst of all in that regard. Brunettes were more sedate, if only by a matter of degree, while blondes were often too disorganized and witless to perceive real danger.
Chiun had learned that much from television, studying his favorite soap operas, where men and women acted in accordance with their roles in white society.
He wouldn't wait on Stacy, then, or trust her with the details of his plan. If she was not in
a position to assist him, neither would she be a stumbling block when he began to smite their enemies.
In general, the Master Emeritus of Sinanju favored subtle killing, the ideal assassination having been defined as one in which no third party suspected assassination, but he also recognized that there were times when subtlety fell short of the desired result.
Times such as this.
Chiun watched the pirates lining up with plates and bowls in hand. The first man in the line was one of those who had repeatedly described him as Chinese. Chiun smiled and ladled out a double portion of his special gumbo to the unwashed buccaneer.
"Smell's durn good, Chinaman," the buccaneer said.
"You will velly tasty, you bet," Chiun answered. In his head he added, You be velly dead velly soon, ignorant white man.
And he meant it.
"WE'RE ALMOST THERE," said Ethan Humphrey, pointing with a hand that trembled now, despite his effort to control himself.
The island loomed in front of them, two smaller lumps of jungle-shrouded rock flanking it on either side. The center of attention, christened Ile de Mort, according to his skipper, was a mile long, give or take, with rugged peaks along its spine. Only the crags were naked stone; the rest was clotted jungle growth from mountain slopes down to a reeking mangrove swamp at water's edge.
"The anchorage is on the northern side," Humphrey explained. "We'll need another half hour to get there."
"I see an inlet there." Remo pointed toward the mouth of what appeared to be a brackish stream, amid the looming mangroves. It was wide enough for Humphrey's boat to pass. The water course might narrow inland, but he didn't care, as long as they could pull the cabin cruiser out of sight from any stray patrol boats that might happen by.
"You can't be serious," the ex-professor said.
"Not up to it?" He cracked a mirthless smile. "No sweat, Professor. I'll just take her in myself."
"You will not, sir!" His voice was stern, but Humphrey clearly realized that he could not stop Remo from seizing control of the boat if he was so inclined.
"Do they post lookouts?" Remo asked, as Humphrey nosed the boat toward shore.
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